


Terms of Surrender

by blodeuweddbach



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, F/M, My First Smut, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Smut, Some Fluff, mostly fluff at the end, sue me, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-04-21 23:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14296137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blodeuweddbach/pseuds/blodeuweddbach
Summary: When Daenerys Targaryan sails with her army to King's Landing, Sansa Stark is left holding the fort as Lady of Casterly Rock. What no one expected was for the Rock itself to come under siege by a section of the Golden Company, or for the elusive commander's terms of surrender.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little story I wrote a while back, as an apology for the lack of updates on 'Needs Must'. University deadlines have all converged so I've been unfortunately very preoccupied lately. I hope to have the next chapter completed soon.
> 
> Warning: the next chapter of this story will contain my first attempt at writing smut, so I hope it's not too awkwardly done.

**Sansa**

“My lady, will you wear any jewels?”

The maid’s question dragged Sansa from her thoughts. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror of her vanity. Her hair had been brushed until it shone like copper, and plaited simply in the Northern style she had long preferred since leaving King’s Landing. Her maids had dressed her in a gown of deep grey brocade, so dark it was almost black, trimmed with cloth-of-silver. It was severe, and made her look pale. It also made her look older than her eighteen summers, and more capable than her trembling hands revealed. 

“No jewels,” she replied, remembering that she had been asked a question. She wanted to appear ladylike and noble, but jewels seemed frivolous. Sansa doubted they were appropriate for the situation, but, then, she wasn’t sure. She had never been in a situation such as this before. 

_What exactly does one wear, when they surrender to their foes?_

The siege had dragged on for nearly two weeks. Those two weeks had been fairly secure. Casterly Rock had never been taken by siege, her husband had often told her, and no castle was better prepared for such an ordeal. Towering above the sea as a natural fortress, Sansa did not have any qualms about the keep’s defences falling to the sellswords encamped outside its walls and moored on the waters below. 

Starvation was their true enemy. Tyrion had left with as many Lannister men as he could raise not a week before the siege had begun, to make for King’s Landing. Joffrey had sent a letter pleading for assistance, after the news that a Targaryen fleet was sailing for the capital. 

No one, apparently, had noticed that part of that fleet had separated from the rest to head westward. Whoever led the mercenaries currently waiting them out, Sansa couldn’t help but think he was clever. He had found them poorly guarded and with emptier cellars than was needed to feed an entire castle, plus the smallfolk from the town below the walls that Sansa had called up after the alarm had been raised. 

She herself had not eaten in a whole day. It would only get worse, she knew. The pleas for help that she had sent from the rookery, those that weren’t shot down by arrows, had yielded no answers in the past fortnight. Tyrion’s last missive had arrived ten days ago, detailing the similar events occurring in King’s Landing. A whole fleet of ships had blockaded the Blackwater, and the city itself had been set upon by Dothraki screamers and Unsullied soldiers. No help was coming, and so Sansa had to make a choice. Surrender the Rock, and most likely her head, to the army outside the walls, or starve. 

It had taken a walk down to the kitchens, where she had found an errand boy sobbing with hunger, which had made the decision for her. 

_I am a Stark,_ she told her reflection as she stood from her mirror, the maids scattering from her vicinity as though she had some sort of plague. _I am a Stark, and I can be brave. If only this once._

She had called her master-at-arms earlier that morning at daybreak, and told him her request. She wanted an audience with the sellsword captain. The Golden Company, the most expensive sellswords in Essos, would surely not turn down such an opportunity? She would offer them the castle, the whole West if need be. _Better than watching everyone starve._ She had never been courageous, but she wasn’t cruel. Even after everything, she hadn’t become Cersei. 

In true sellsword fashion, the captain of the contingent currently laying siege to Casterly Rock refused to walk through the gates to treaty with her. _She_ must go to him, as he had told the master-at-arms. Sansa wasn’t fool enough to do so alone. Twenty of the strongest fighters remaining in the castle were arranged to flank her as she rode into the camp astride her grey mare. She might have been going to negotiate her surrender, but Sansa refused to do so looking anything less than a lady. 

One of her maids finally had the courage to speak. It was Elyse, the one she was fondest of. A little older than Sansa, she stood wringing her hands slightly, an expression of concern written on her face. 

“My lady,” Elyse began, “what will you say to him?” 

Sansa had been wondering the same thing, but she wasn’t about to admit her uncertainty in front of the Lannister women surrounding her. 

“I will do all that I can to ensure the safety of everyone in the castle,” Sansa told her, meaning every word. It didn’t stop her stomach from clenching tightly in fear. It would be a harder thing, she knew, to ensure such safety for herself. They would likely want to make an example of her, remove any threat to their conquest of the Rock. That may come by the removal of her head. The idea made her throat constrict. 

Elyse was not satisfied by her answer. “But my lady, what of yourself? These men are sellswords, mercenaries. Is it wise to enter their camp? You are beautiful, and so young… they may try to hurt you.” 

The possibility had not been lost on Sansa. Everyone thought her a stupid girl, but she had guessed what might be requested of her when she went to meet with the Golden Company without much difficulty. If she gave in to the fears such thoughts inspired, however, they would all be lost. So she merely forced her chin a little higher, giving herself a final cursory glance in the mirror. She truly did look like a lady. _A frightened one._

“Let them try,” she said. “I will not be cowed by common thieves.” 

Her maids did not look convinced, but Sansa could not find it in herself to care as she left her chambers. Every step she descended on her way to the courtyard seemed to tremble dangerously beneath her, as though her legs would give way in fear. They did not, however, and she mounted her horse in the yard with as much dignity as she could muster. Several of the smallfolk she had brought into the keep had come out into the yard to watch her go. She was a Stark, and they had no love for her, but she would keep them safe regardless. _My father would have done the same. He was an honourable man. Perhaps I will finally be worthy of him._

Sansa wondered if she would be seeing him soon. 

Their ride into the sellsword camp was short. The master-at-arms led the retinue, with Sansa’s mare walking behind, surrounded by guards on all sides. The horse was a skittish creature, but the sudden introduction of so many new noises and smells made her even more nervous. Sansa had to grip the reins tightly to stop the mare from tossing her head about, and prayed that they would make it to the captains’ tent before she could be thrown into the dirt. She feared if she fell, she would not have the courage to pick herself up again. 

Sansa was acutely aware of the eyes that followed them as they picked their way along the wider paths between the tents. Hundreds of men, swarthy from the Essos sun, jeered at them as they passed. 

“It’s the Imp’s whore,” someone shouted, and laughter erupted around them like thunder. Sansa kept her gaze straight ahead, on the point where the horizon lay, shimmering slightly from the smoke lifting from the camp. 

_I am a Stark._ The words were a litany in her head. She prayed to every god known to her that she would remember them when they saw the captain. _I am a Stark. Not the Imp’s whore, not a Lannister or a fool. A Stark. And I can be brave._

“Their tent is ahead, my lady,” the master-at-arms, Haye, informed her. “I will dismount first, and I will lead you inside. Five men will accompany us. The rest will be stationed outside.” 

“Do you expect trouble?” Sansa asked him quietly, the words sending ice through her veins. _We are vastly outnumbered._ If the sellswords did decide to attack, they would not stand a chance. 

Haye gave her a small shake of his head. “No, my lady. We are here to surrender, and the castle will remain steadfast even if they kill us. They have nothing to gain from an attack. They have the upper hand already, and they know it.” 

His words made sense, but they did little to ease the knot of fear that weighed on her stomach. Following Haye’s lead, Sansa slid from her mare, approaching the entrance of the tent on trembling legs. The master-at-arms pushed the cover aside, and they stepped inside. 

It took a few moments for Sansa’s eyes to adjust to the dim light within the tent. It was larger than any of the others they had passed on the way, with low chairs set in the centre. Racks of weaponry were lined against the walls, and overstuffed cushions had been thrown haphazardly on the rugs that covered the floor. There were more people inside than she had been anticipating. Three men were sitting on the low chairs, clad in armour and looking at her with interest as she entered, followed by her guards. A fourth man stood further back, sharpening a sword. The glint of the metal made Sansa’s heartbeat race, and she looked away quickly. _Be brave,_ she cautioned herself, though every instinct was screaming at her to run from the tent while she still could. 

Forcing herself to look each of the men in the eye, she was also acutely aware of the women in the tent. She’d heard of camp-followers before, whores that travelled with armies to service the soldiers, but it was another thing to see them standing quite contentedly half-naked in front of her. Several of them flashed her a wry smile, and Sansa let her gaze sweep over them as though they were not there. 

“Which of you is the captain?” She heard herself asking the four men sitting before her. They exchanged glances, and one of them gave a soft laugh. He didn’t look much older than herself, with olive skin and green eyes. Perhaps he would have been handsome, if it weren’t for the fact that he had been trying to starve her to death. 

“The commander isn’t here,” the green-eyed man told her. “He is not a sociable man, and thought it best that I take care of the negotiations as his second-in-command.” 

Sansa blinked in surprise. The sellsword commander, who she supposed was the same thing as a captain, had called her into their camp to negotiate, and hadn’t even bothered to attend. If she wasn’t so afraid she might have been angry. 

“We don’t wish to drag this out, Lady…” a second man, this one older with grey streaks through his long brown hair, said. _They didn’t even bother to learn my name, either._

“Lady Sansa,” she finished for him, with more courage than she felt. “And I wish for a quick solution also. I have come to surrender Casterly Rock to your company, provided you agree to my conditions.” 

The men laughed more heartily this time. The green-eyed soldier grinned at her as though she were a lackwit. “You really aren’t in much of a position to be giving us conditions, _my lady_. We have you surrounded, and we know you’re running out of food in that castle of yours.” 

Sansa ignored his taunts, curling her shaking hands into fists to steady herself. 

“I request,” she began, “that you not let any harm come to my servants, guards, or any of the smallfolk currently inside the castle.” 

The man sharpening his sword suddenly lowered it, stepping closer to her. “You have nerve, little girl,” he told her, in a heavily accented voice she couldn’t place. “You ask no small thing of the Golden Company.” 

“I thought the aim of a sellsword company was to fulfil whatever request their customer made of them,” Sansa retorted. “Not to kill errand boys and rape scullery maids. If I give you the castle, you will have completed your task. I’m sure Daenerys Targaryen will reward you all handsomely for delivering her Casterly Rock. There is no need for bloodshed for you to get your gold.” 

The grey-haired man eyed her carefully. “Wiser than you look,” he commented. Then he turned to the green-eyed man. “She has a point, Allyn. The Dragon Queen dislikes killing innocents. Remember what she did in Meereen?” 

Allyn seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then he motioned to one of the women sitting on the floor nearby, pulling her to sit in his lap. He gave Sansa a pointed look, as though talking to her with a whore on his knee were a challenge of sorts. 

“The request is reasonable enough,” he concluded after a few long moments, stroking the whore’s ebon hair away from her face. “But I must first relay it to my superior. He will have requests of his own, no doubt.” He looked her up and down then, his green eyes lingering in a way that set her nerves even more on edge. “A pretty little thing like you, I think the captain will regret not being here to hear it from you himself.” 

The remaining soldier, a large, balding man from the Summer Isles, chuckled lowly. “A redhead, too. He’ll be wanting a bit more than a castle from _you_ , girl, if I know him at all.” 

In the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Haye’s hand find its way to the pommel of his sword. She put her hand on his elbow. There was no point in becoming angry over such implications; Sansa had known it would be a possibility that these men would ask for more than her surrender. Though it made her head reel, she would not let Haye get himself killed for something as paltry as her honour. 

Allyn took up the joke, eyeing Haye’s glare. “A lovely redhead, indeed.” He turned his head to address a woman standing to his left. “Tansy, my dear, you might have some competition.” 

Tansy turned out to be a buxom woman, with freckles across her nose and bright ginger hair. She looked Sansa up and down, as though taking stock of her. 

“I don’t know,” Tansy said. “I think I’m more than enough for milord commander. Unless he prefers skinny little highborn cunt, that is.” 

The tent was filled with laughter, and Sansa felt her face heat. She wanted nothing more than to bolt from the tent and never return, but she needed to know they would consider her conditions. 

“If you will relay my terms to the commander,” Sansa said, fighting to be louder than the laughter around her, “I will return on the morrow to hear your answer.” 

Allyn grinned at her. 

“We look forward to it, Lady Sansa.” 

* * *

Night fell more slowly in the Westerlands. Sansa had noticed as much when she had first arrived at Casterly Rock, nearly three years before. The sun burned longer in the sky where it sank to kiss the Sunset Sea, rendering the sky a beautiful tapestry of pinks and golds. 

Tonight, though, there was no breath-taking sunset. Clouds obscured the horizon, turning the dying daylight into nothing more than a grey haze to the west. She watched it from her balcony, keeping her gaze resolutely fixed away from the golden-sailed ships moored in the waters below. 

Tyrion had often joined her when she had watched the sunset. Ugly though he was, he had always been kind to her. He never asked to claim his husbandly rights, for which she was glad, and he had tried to make her feel at home in the West. Sansa had never had the heart to tell him his efforts were in vain. Her home was many miles north, in a castle occupied by strangers. Her family was dead. She was the last Stark, the weakest of the wolves, and Casterly Rock would never be her home. 

Not for the first time, Sansa wondered if her husband was alive. For all she knew, his head could be on a spike on the walls of the Red Keep. Perhaps it was as the sellswords had jeered over the walls; perhaps Daenerys Targaryen meant to feed him to her dragons. She silently prayed that it was not so. A Lannister he may have been, but he had been better to her in the last three years than the rest of his family combined. She wanted him to be safe. 

“My lady.” A voice startled Sansa from her recollections, and she looked up to see Elyse standing in the doorway. She had questioned Sansa intensely when she had returned to the castle earlier that afternoon, wanting to know all that had transpired between her mistress and the sellswords. Now, though, Sansa could tell it was something else. 

“What is it, Elyse?” 

“It’s Haye, my lady. He says that the sellsword commander has sent his terms for the surrender of the castle.” 

“What?” Sansa was confused. She had arranged for them to meet tomorrow morning, to give the man more time to consider her conditions. Did this mean he had rejected them outright? She prayed not. Shivering, though the night air was not cold, she stood from her chair. “What did he say, Elyse?” 

Elyse seemed hesitant, and Sansa felt like shaking her by the shoulders in her impatience to know what had been demanded of her. Finally, the servant mustered her courage. 

“The commander is willing to accept the surrender of the castle, and the terms you proposed.” Elyse’s voice was precise, as though she had rehearsed the words several times before repeating them to Sansa. “However, Haye said that there… were some additional requests.” 

Sansa’s heart, which had leapt at the news that her terms had been accepted, sank again. “Go on,” she told Elyse, before she could lose whatever courage she still held. 

“He wishes to divide the contents of the Lannister treasury among his men,” Elyse continued. 

Sansa nodded absently at that. Without the castle in her possession, she had little use for the gold stored in its depths. _I wonder if Daenerys Targaryen will be happy about it, however._

“The commander also states that you must not leave the castle until Daenerys Targaryen sends for you. You will likely be asked to bend the knee in King’s Landing, should she be successful in taking the capital.” 

That, too, had been expected. Sansa no longer cared for the game of thrones. Who ruled the Seven Kingdoms was of no consequence to her. _I hope Daenerys does win,_ Sansa thought suddenly, remembering Joffrey’s cruel laughter. _I hope she mounts Joff’s head on a spike, and his mother’s too. I hope the crows peck the eyes from their heads, like they did to my father’s._

“Finally…” Elyse seemed uncertain if she should continue. Sansa gave her a look of acceptance, her body tense as she waited for the last demand. The maid took a deep breath to steady herself. “The commander requests that he spend tomorrow evening in… in the pleasure of your company, my lady.” 

Sansa felt a breath leave her chest shakily. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. _What did you expect?_ her mind asked her. _He is a man after all. A rough, coarse sellsword no less._ The idea made her tremble. 

Elyse was looking at her as though she could cry. Sansa couldn’t bear that. _I need her to think I am strong,_ she thought, though she didn’t understand why. _I need her to think I can do this, or I will have no courage left._

“I see,” was all Sansa could manage for a few long moments. _An evening in the pleasure of my company._ Maiden though she was, despite her marriage, Sansa was under no illusions as to what ‘pleasures’ the sellsword commander was envisioning. The thought made her sick to her stomach, but she forced herself to take a deep breath of salt-tinged air. “Well, I suppose I cannot refuse.” 

“My lady-“ Elyse began, but Sansa gave her a tremulous smile. 

“All is well, Elyse,” she lied. “I… I am glad he accepted my terms, at least. I ought to repay him for that much.” 

Whatever restraint the maid had shown until now crumbled away at that. “He asks for too much!” Elyse said, anger entering her tone. For a tiny moment, Sansa was taken aback by her maid’s concern. It had been a long time since someone had cared about her welfare. “My lady, you must refuse him.” 

Sansa shook her head, fighting the constriction in her throat that hinted at tears about to fall. “I will not risk his refusing my conditions. If this is how I may keep everyone safe, then I will do my duty gladly as Lady of the Rock.” 

Elyse looked at her sadly. “Then you are kinder than they know, my lady.” 

The maid left her then, and Sansa stood alone on her balcony, wondering how she would proceed. The situation she found herself in was a frightening one, but she had little choice in the matter. She hugged her arms closer to her body, looking out over the sea. 

_Perhaps it won’t be so bad,_ she told herself, trying to feign calm. _It is only one night, and then it will be over._ She had suffered through worse, Sansa reasoned. She had once thought she would have to give her maidenhead to Joffrey, and he had killed her father. Giving herself to a sellsword captain, a stranger, was not desirable, but at least she had no connection to him. It would make it easier to forget it had ever happened. 

Unbidden, something Cersei had said came to her mind, from the night the Blackwater had burned. _“Tears are not a woman’s only weapon. You’ve another between your legs, and you’d best learn to use it. You’ll find men use their swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords.”_

Was that the answer to her fears? To think of spending the night with some sellsword as some sort of weapon against him? Sansa wasn’t sure. It did help her calm her breathing somewhat, however, and clear her head. She was grateful for that much. 

Her mind made up, she headed for her room. _I will need my rest,_ she told herself, though she knew she would be getting no sleep at all. _I have a battle to win tomorrow._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut in this chapter, but be prepared for the next one!

**Sandor**

Sandor Clegane had never pretended to be a good man. Thus he made no effort to hide his ugly smile as he came into view of Haye, standing outside the gates of the Rock and looking at him with unveiled shock. 

“Clegane,” the master-at-arms said, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The blank shock in the ageing man’s eyes then quickly turned to anger. “You bastard.” 

Sandor could feel a muscle twitching in his ruined cheek as his smile widened. “It’s good to see you too, Haye. It’s almost like old times.” 

Haye spat on the ground at that. The spittle hit the toe of Sandor’s boot. _The man always was an excellent shot._ “You were barely a pup the last I saw you,” the man said bitterly. “Now I see you’re everything the rumours told me; a mad dog who bit the hand that fed it. I’d heard you’d tucked tail and ran from the Blackwater. Never thought I’d see your ugly face again.” 

Sandor chuckled darkly at that, his grip on the pommel of his sword tightening almost imperceptibly. Haye noticed, however, for the man’s blue eyes darted from Sandor’s face to follow the small movement. 

“I lost interest in getting fed by lions,” he rasped. “Or inbred little shits of a king, at that. You’d do well to remember your situation, old man. I’m not here to argue with you, or let you lecture me like I were still some green squire.” 

Haye’s glare narrowed even further at that, the lines around his eyes pulling taut. In the unflattering light of approaching dusk, it made him look even older than Sandor calculated he could have been. _You likely don’t make a pretty picture, either, dog._

“No,” Haye agreed after a heartbeat’s pause, “you’re here to dishonour the Lady Sansa in her own house like the cur you are.” 

Sandor was boring of the conversation fast. It had been a long day of waiting for the light to fade over their camp to make his way into the Rock, as its lady had ordered. He hadn’t minded that so much; after all, they had been laying siege to the place for two weeks beforehand. Patience was a virtue soldiers learned quickly, even sellswords. But it seemed to him now, as he stood below the fortress that had intimidated him so much as a boy, that Haye and his words were the last of the obstructions that stood in the way of his goal. That goal, Sandor thought with mounting frustration, being burying himself in Sansa Stark’s cunt. 

“I’ll dishonour her no more than the Lannisters did,” Sandor answered, with as much finality as he could manage, “when they threw her to the Imp. And this is not her home.” 

Mirroring Haye’s glare, Sandor gestured to the gate in front of them with one mailed fist. He had decided against full armour that evening, thinking it would only take more time to remove, but at Allyn’s suggestion he had worn his gauntlets and swordbelts as a precaution. _It would be unwise to try and harm me,_ Sandor knew, _but that hasn’t stopped people from trying before._ They had the castle surrounded, and Sandor had seen fit for a number of his men to follow him as far as the Keep’s courtyard, should he need help. If they attempted to kill him, he had no doubt his under-officers would pass the order for the entire place to be slaughtered. 

It seemed that Haye understood this, for he heaved an angry sigh and motioned for the portcullis to be raised behind him. As it creaked upward, its hinges groaning with the effort, Haye led the way into the central yard that lay beyond, Sandor and his retinue of men following behind. 

Even in the grey twilight, years after he had first laid eyes on it, Casterly Rock still managed to impress Sandor as he stared up at it. Its blood-red walls seemed to climb upward for an age, turrets and walkways spiralling out of sight into the mist that had rolled in from the ocean. The clouds were slightly tinged with yellow. _A storm brewing._ If he were a superstitious man, Sandor might have taken it as an ill omen. As it stood, however, his most pressing concern was the impatience building in his veins. He was close, _so_ close, to something he had longed craved for. He wouldn’t let something so meagre as rain prevent him now. 

With a few knowing nods to his men, they stationed themselves in the yard, joking among themselves and finding shelter beneath the cover of the wall walk. Sandor, meanwhile, followed Haye through the enormous doors of the keep. This route was less familiar to him as the rest of the castle; the last he had been here, he’d been little more than a squire, barely eleven years old. There had been no cause for him to wander the grand reception rooms of the Lannister fortress through which the master-at-arms now led him. Now and again, they passed a servant along a corridor; they invariably hurried out of sight when they caught a glimpse of his face. 

Some things, Sandor supposed, never changed. 

“My lady has asked that you join her in one of the guest rooms,” Haye said, as they climbed to one of the floors Sandor had never had occasion to enter. The anger dripped from his every word, but Sandor ignored it. “She preferred to keep your… rendezvous away from her usual rooms.” 

There was an accusation in Haye’s voice that Sandor contemplated for a moment. It made sense that Sansa wouldn’t wish for him, a stranger as far as she knew, to meet with her in her own rooms. That would only serve as a reminder once it was all over. 

Perhaps he should have felt guilty for what he was doing. Perhaps he ought to be ashamed, that he was coercing the lady of Casterly Rock to spend an evening in his company, in return for mercy on her people. But Sandor Clegane had never pretended to be a good man, and he was not about to start now. _Not when she’s here, almost in reach._

Haye finally halted outside a door at the end of a long passage. He gave a sharp knock on the door, during which Sandor fought a sudden, inexplicable rush of nerves that rose in his stomach. _What is there to be scared of, dog?_ He was the conqueror here, the one who had given his terms of surrender. It seemed the little bird knew it too, for she had accepted more quickly than he had anticipated. 

_All to keep the people of the Rock safe._ She had more courage than he had ever given her credit for. _And enough honour to put her headless corpse of a father to shame._

“My lady,” Haye called through the thick wood of the door, “your… _guest_ is here.” 

A pause stretched after that, during which the master-at-arms threw Sandor a look that spoke of bloody murder. 

“Please come in,” a voice finally called back. Sandor’s stomach clenched strangely at the familiarity of it. 

Before he could so much as take a step toward the door, however, Haye blocked him with a mailed arm. “If you so much as think of harming her in any way- any way at all- I’ll make sure I cut you down like a feral dog.” 

Sandor said nothing. There was little point. He knew what he was for asking this of the girl. He also knew that Haye wouldn’t understand any response he could give to deny his wish to harm her, so he offered none. 

“I’ll be waiting outside this door,” Haye continued. “At the first sign of trouble, the first scream I hear, I’ll come in and cut your throat.” 

Sandor snorted at that. The master-at-arms had been a skilled man, once, but his advancing years and the several feet of height that Sandor had gained since they had last seen each other made any idea of Haye beating him negligible. Still, he gave the man a nod as he opened the door. 

The room beyond was large, as all the upper rooms of the Rock were. A fire already blazed in the grate set in the left-hand wall. Two armchairs stood unoccupied beside it. The right-hand wall was taken up by a large bed, hangings of red brocade tied to each of its posts. A large window opposite the door looked out over the darkening sky, the Sunset Sea an uncertain iron-grey smudge amid the gathering cloud far below. 

It took Sandor little more than a moment to take in these surroundings. It took less than that to note the young woman standing directly in front of him. She faced away from the door, hovering near a small table behind the armchairs. There was a decanter in her pale hands, and she seemed to be staring resolutely at it even as she spoke to him. 

It seemed strange, as Sandor stared wordlessly at her, how much of her had changed. She was taller than he remembered, which went without saying. It had been three years since he’d last seen her. She was shapelier now, a woman’s curves interrupting the line of her silk robe as it cascaded to the floor. Her hair, mercifully, was down. Sandor remembered that she used to like wearing it up in the Southron style the ladies at court wore. He’d always hated it. This way was better; it fell in waves almost to the small of her back, the firelight casting coppery strands to shine through it. 

She was as lovely as he remembered, and he found himself closing the door behind him as softly as he could. He didn’t wish to disturb the picture she painted in the warm firelight; the sweetest, saddest beauty in the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Would you care for wine?” She asked him suddenly. Her hand lifted to pour the contents into one of the cups on the table, lifting it to her lips. “It’s Arbor gold.” After taking a measurable sip, she filled his glass without waiting for his answer. Sandor wondered how much of the decanter she had emptied before his arrival. _Best she have her courage,_ he thought suddenly, _before she turns and takes a look at me._

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Sansa turned to face him, the untouched wine glass in her hand as though to offer it to him. It dropped from her grip with an ear-splitting shatter in a matter of moments. Sandor’s gaze dropped to the broken remains of the glass on the flagstones, where they lay like fragments of ice. One of Sansa’s slippered feet walked over them, and he looked up again. 

“Little bird,” he found himself rasping. He was unsure what he would say next, unsure of everything except the utter lack of fear in Sansa Stark’s blue eyes as she closed the space toward him more swiftly than he had ever imagined she could move. 

He saw her hand lifting back, and found himself making no attempt to stop her either. Her palm met his face with a slap that seemed to ring through the otherwise still room like thunder. It stung, but he kept his face resolutely still as she reeled back from the impact. 

“My lady,” Haye’s voice called from beyond the door. He had evidently heard the smashed glass. “Are you well?” 

Holding her reddening palm, not taking her eyes from Sandor’s, she answered the master-at-arms. “Yes, Haye. I thank you.” 

Her voice had remained quite calm, but Sansa’s eyes were almost chaotic as he looked down into them. They were clouded with anger and disbelief by turns. Sandor found he couldn’t blame her for it. 

“I suppose I deserved that,” he rasped. The sound of his voice made her visibly flinch, but she didn’t break her gaze. _That’s certainly new._ How many times had he told her to look at him, back in the Red Keep? Something Sandor had never guessed, however, was the feeling of discomfort her eyes on his face would cause. He felt exposed beneath it, like a naked man in the harsh Northern wind. 

It was a few long moments before Sansa found her voice. When she did, however, her voice shook on every syllable. 

“How could you?” Her chest was heaving with her shock, and Sandor had to remind himself not to get distracted by it just then. 

“How could I what?” 

The expression that crossed the little bird’s face then was unmistakeable anger. “How could you try to starve women and children to death?” She barely paused for breath between her accusations. “How could you come back here, after so long, to terrify us all?” 

Her anger was infectious. The impatience he had felt while talking to Haye was mounting steadily again. _I didn’t come here for your chirping, girl,_ he wanted to tell her. 

“I told you I was a killer, little bird,” he said instead, letting his most hideous smirk curl his ruin of a mouth. “Did you think I would be cowed by an order to lay siege to the Imp’s castle? The same Imp who tried to make me ride into the fire on the Blackwater? I agreed quite happily to it. It wasn’t as difficult as I’d thought, after all.” 

Her gaze finally dropped from his then, but Sandor could tell it was merely an attempt to contain her anger as best she could. _Bugger that,_ he thought. _Let it out._ They weren’t in King’s Landing anymore; she could speak her mind, for once, and not have to worry about anyone’s wrath. 

“I suppose it grows tiring,” she replied, her voice somehow steady, “to try and wait out old ladies and babes. I can see that subduing Casterly Rock wasn’t quite enough for you; you wish to humiliate its lady also.” 

He scoffed at that, reaching out to catch hold of her chin and lifting it so that their eyes met again. Sandor narrowed his eyes at her. 

“You came down into the camp below the walls. There are plenty of whores there I could ask to warm my bed. Do you think that I make a habit of asking for the pleasure of highborn women once I’ve taken what I was ordered to? I can assure you, even my ugly face is pleasing enough when it comes with gold and protection. I have no shortage of female company, should I want it. It’s not a matter of _humiliation_.”

A flicker of doubt crossed the girl’s brow at his words, before she could compose herself. “I… don’t understand you.” 

She made it sound like an accusation, and he huffed a mirthless laugh. “Perhaps it’s better if you don’t.” Even Sandor didn’t entirely understand it; in the three years since he had left Westeros, his thoughts both waking and sleeping had been consumed with the redheaded Stark girl he’d left behind more often than he cared to admit, even to himself. 

Sansa looked as though she was going to question him further, but he wouldn’t allow that. He’d meant what he said; he hadn’t much interest in talking with her. If this was the opportunity he would get to have her all to himself, he would take it without preamble. 

Taking a single step forward to close the gap between them, Sandor watched as the girl craned her neck to look up at him. She was tall for a woman, he supposed, but the top of her head reached no further than his chest. 

“If you’re going to stand there seething at me, _my lady_ ,” he rasped, “you might as well do so naked.” 

There was some satisfaction, however small, in watching the way her blue eyes widened at his words. 

“If you think-“

He interrupted her before she could have the opportunity to anger him. “What, now that you know who made the request for your company you think I will merely leave without getting what I want?” 

Sansa’s mouth set in a thin line as she narrowed her eyes at him. _She has some backbone, at least._ The thought was as frustrating as it was amusing. 

“I never knew you wanted… that.” Her hands bunched in the skirt of her robe. Sandor did what he could not to follow the movement with his eyes; from this angle, he had a prime view down the neckline of her nightgown. While he had no intention of hiding his desires from her, he wanted her to finish her words. “You seemed content not to act on that desire in King’s Landing.” 

He snorted derisively at that. “In King’s Landing you were the King’s betrothed, and I was his dog.” 

“I’m Tyrion’s wife now,” Sansa interjected. “Or did you forget that?” 

“How could I?” Sandor asked bitterly, imagining not for the first time the feeling of the Imp’s nose shattering under his fist. “I left you there, only for you to be thrown to that dwarf. With any luck, though, the Imp’s no more than dragon shit by now.” 

The siege at King’s Landing, from the last piece of news the Golden Company had received from the city, was nearing its end. Daenerys Targaryen, Sandor had no doubt, would be named Queen of Westeros in a matter of weeks. He was silently glad he was not on the defending side; the mere thought of dragon fire made his palms sweat. 

For a moment, he was so occupied by the thought that he almost missed the way Sansa’s face blanched. “Tyrion… is wise. Perhaps he’s struck a deal with Daenerys Targaryen.” 

Sandor scrutinised her face, frustration beginning to boil in his veins. Why was she defending the Imp, of all people? 

“You almost sound like you want him to live,” he rasped down at her, making full use of his towering height to watch her reaction. When she looked away from him, for a fleeting second, he found himself grabbing her upper arm. “Is that it, girl? Do you miss the Imp? Do you _love_ him?” 

His grip on her arm wasn’t tight, but Sansa still pulled against it. To his surprise, the fear she might have once shown at the sudden turn in his moods was absent. Instead, she gave him a look of blazing anger. 

“I’ll bet he’s every part the handsome knight you always wanted,” he continued, not relenting is grasp. “From what I heard, the night of the Blackwater left him almost as comely as me.” 

“Stop.” The word was a sharp command from her rosebud lips, and Sandor found himself obeying it. Sansa finally wrenched her arm from him, stepping back a little as she stared at him. 

“Tyrion is a good man,” she said finally. Sandor felt his chest constrict at that, though he wasn’t sure why. _So that’s it, is it?_ If she could see goodness even in the Lannister Imp, she truly was as foolish as she had been in the Red Keep. “Oh, _you_ wouldn’t think so, but he has always been kind to me.” 

“You wouldn’t know a man’s kindness if it bit you on your little frozen arse,” Sandor rasped, thinking of Joffrey and the rest. She had lived among vipers and lions since she had left Winterfell. 

“And that’s why you’re here?” The little bird countered, folding her arms across her chest. “To show me a man’s kindness?” 

It was meant to be a challenge, Sandor knew, but he wouldn’t meet it. There was something about the way she looked, her hair all aflame in the firelight, staring at him unafraid, that made all thought of shouting at her fade away. 

“I could,” he found himself saying, before he could stop himself. “I could show you kindness. I could be so good to you, little bird, if only for tonight.” 

His words seemed to render Sansa mute for a few long moments. She hugged her arms as she looked at him, seeming, for the second time that evening, quite shocked. Sandor cursed himself for that admission. _Gods, you’re a fool._ Had he thought he could ply her with pretty words? She hated him, and rightly so. He’d laid siege to the castle for two weeks, had most likely made the girl think she would starve to death or be put to the sword. He couldn’t feel guilt for it- he had been merely following orders, hadn’t even known she was in the castle until two days before- but he had known that she would hate him for it. 

Sansa watched him with hesitant eyes. Sandor didn’t wonder why; he’d never given her any reason, all those years ago, to think that he had so much as _thought_ about being good to her. He doubted her septa had schooled her as to how to reply to such a revelation. Finally, after what felt an age, she spoke. 

“You were kind to me in King’s Landing,” she offered quietly, more to herself than him. “When the mob came for me, you didn’t leave me behind. You stopped me from pushing Joffrey from the parapet.” 

Sandor heard himself snort. “I was anything but _kind_ to you. I only did what those fine sworn brothers were too cowardly to do.” 

“You offered to take me home-“ Sansa began. The night of the Blackwater, in all its terrible clarity, rushed back to the forefront of his mind. He could almost feel the sheen of sweat on his palms again, the heat of wildfire licking the windows of his memory. Sandor felt his mouth pull up in a sneer. 

“Then I put a knife to your throat and asked for a song. Or did you forget that part?” 

She was unfazed by his sudden anger. “No. Nor did I forget you telling me that no one would hurt me again, or you’d kill them.” 

“What a lot of good those words did,” he countered, feeling his mouth twitch in one corner. Gods, she could make him so _angry_ still, never saying what she truly felt but only what she thought people wanted to hear. “I left you there with the Lannisters.” 

“I chose to stay.” 

He shook off her words with an irritable jerk of his head, like warding away an irksome fly. Sandor’s chest felt tight. He didn’t understand her; didn’t understand the way she needed to try and justify the actions he’d taken years ago, like he was a knight from one of her songs. 

He was no knight. She ought to have learned. 

“Chirp those pretty words all you want, girl,” he finally answered, something akin to resignation in his voice. He tore off each of his mailed gloves, letting them thud to the floor. “Think of me as some sort of defender of the innocent if it pleases you.” With a sneer, he reached down for the edge of his tunic, pulling it over his head. He watched her eyes follow the movement, her mouth falling open slightly as though she had forgotten what he’d come for. 

She didn’t try to stop him. Sandor lifted her chin to meet his gaze again, and was surprised to find her own brightened. Not with fear, as he might have expected. _Something else._ Sansa was watching him closely, and suddenly the room felt too small. He was still in his trousers and boots, yet he felt strangely exposed under each flicker of those blue eyes. 

His courage failed him. He dropped his hand from her chin and turned away from her unblinking stare. 

_Too much._ For all those years of asking her to look at him, it was almost laughable how disconcerting her lack of fear was to him in that moment. Sandor was used to people fearing him; he was used to pretty girls turning away in disgust, the way Sansa Stark had on the Kingsroad all those years ago.

Now that he found her braver, looking at him openly as if she saw everything he was, he didn’t know what to do with her. 

“Some wine,” he rasped, if only to break the unbearable silence that had fallen between them. He cursed himself inwardly for his sudden cowardice. Hadn’t he been resolute in what he’d wanted? Now he was contemplating how much Arbor gold he would need to drink to numb the embarrassment of returning to camp before the night had even begun for true. 

He felt Sansa walk toward him, but she didn’t offer wine. Instead, he felt a small, cool hand against his bare shoulder blade. Sandor sucked in his breath. For a few long moments, her hand stayed there, a balm against his burning skin and the unbearable tension that pressed around him. 

The hand moved downward, ever so slowly. Fingertips brushed hesitantly against the back of his ribs, and Sandor was sure she would feel his heart hammering through them. 

Then he turned and grabbed her wrist, as gently as he could manage. “What are you doing?” 

The girl was gazing up at him with an unreadable expression. 

“I know what you came here for, and what you want,” she told him, voice thoughtful. “And yet you haven’t tried to take it.” 

If Sandor hadn’t known any better- if he hadn’t known that the young woman standing before him had once found him terrifying- he might have thought there was a challenge in her words. Some tremulous thing that spread its limbs to test how far it could reach. 

“I’m not my brother,” he finally managed. Sandor wondered vaguely whether he was telling Sansa that, or reminding himself. _Stupid dog._ He could never have taken such a thing from her, and he should never have expected her to give it to him willingly. The years in Essos, dreaming of her, had made him forget just how unattainable she was. He was a fool to have let them. 

“No,” Sansa agreed. Her fingers twitched in his grip and, on instinct, he released her wrist. Her hand found its way to his face, feather light against his ruined cheek. He nearly drew back; he couldn’t feel her there, not truly, but the memory of what such a touch felt like was alarming. It reminded him of the Blackwater, when she had wiped the tears from his face. After everything, she had still tried to comfort him. 

Before he could think, before he could so much as breathe, Sandor kissed her. 

He had to bend his head to reach her mouth, and at first she didn’t move at all. Her lips were soft and sweetened with wine. 

He didn’t expect them to begin to press against his own lips, tentatively, as though she feared hurting him. It felt too late for that, if he was honest with himself. His chest ached so acutely it felt like it would give way, but he didn’t dare move away. 

Eventually, Sansa stepped away from him, gulping a breath of air that tinged her cheeks with pink. She recovered quickly, though, watching him as though she wished to speak. 

“Stay,” she told him, before he could rumble some apology- or, more likely, snarl at her and leave. It took a few seconds for him to realise what she’d said. 

“What?” 

“Stay.” 

He wasn’t sure what was happening. His head felt foggy, as though he were sleepwalking. But he wasn’t one to refuse any scrap of hope she threw to him. 

“Aren’t you angry?” He asked her, incredulous at this sudden turn in her moods. Women, he’d heard, were changeable creatures, but this was beyond his comprehension. 

Her eyes held his steadily, as though she knew his every doubt and wished to dispel them. “I am,” Sansa replied, very carefully. “I’m very angry. Furious. It was beyond presumption for you to have come here, knowing who you would face and what you have done for the last fortnight, and ask for what you have.” 

Sandor took her insults in silence. They were true, truer than any words she’d ever spoken to him. 

“And yet,” she continued, a frown curling the edges of her mouth, “when I think about you leaving this room, I can’t bear it. You wouldn’t believe me, but since the night of the Blackwater I’ve thought of you more times than I can count. _How I wish the Hound were here,_ I would think, when Joffrey was cruel to me and no one was there to stop him. For all your cruel words and your anger, not knowing where you had gone to or if you were even alive was more than I could bear.” 

The words were pouring from her like they would be her last. Sandor listened to them carefully, hardly daring to believe her. 

“I don’t want to be alone again,” she continued, the words wavering in her throat. “Even if it’s just for tonight, as you said. I don’t want you to leave me.” 

Once, he knew, she might have cried as she said those words. Now she was dry-eyed, glaring at him as though she hated him, but Sandor did not doubt her sincerity for an instant. Dogs could smell lies, after all. 

“Then I won’t,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have endless apologies to make for the lack of updates. Life has been incredibly hectic. Between stomach bugs, hayfever, holidays and finals my writing time has been virtually non-existent for the last two months. 
> 
> Secondly, I promised smut in the second chapter and I have every intention of delivering it to you. However, I agonised over the pacing and dialogue that came beforehand for ages, and I decided the story flowed better with a middle 'interlude' chapter. It's dialogue-heavy and a bit of a rollercoaster of emotions- shock, anger, disbelief, anger, sadness, with some bittersweetness mixed in- but I enjoyed writing it. It was cathartic. Those two need to talk some stuff out.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for your patience. Today was the last exam of my finals, so I can officially say that I've finished my undergraduate degree! As such I'll be able to write and update more often, though my writing schedule is sporadic so I do apologise for any unforeseen delays. Please leave a comment! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You asked me to stay,” he reminded her in a low voice. She felt one large hand trailing up her leg, almost impatiently, fingers tangling in the hem of her dress. “I have heard your terms, Sansa Stark.” Something about the way he said her name (her full name, she realised, the first time she had ever heard it from his lips) made her shiver pleasantly. Then, barely above a murmur; “Will you accept mine?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So (spoilers) I've actually been working on the re-write for this all week, wanted to surprise people ;)
> 
> My first attempt at smut, so please don't be too harsh. Let me know your thoughts in the comments!

For the first time in what seemed forever, Sansa Stark had made a choice completely of her own free will. She had not been threatened, manipulated or forced into a corner. 

She had asked the Hound to stay, and he had agreed. 

In a way, it was strangely liberating. Much like a caged animal that had been freed after long last, however, Sansa felt suddenly unsure of how to proceed. 

If Sandor Clegane sensed her nerves, he didn’t show it. Instead, he walked deliberately slowly over to an armchair (keeping his back turned resolutely to the fire, she noticed) and sank his enormous frame into it. 

“You’ve got me to stay at your side like a loyal cur, girl,” he rasped at her. His voice was calm, as though he were thinking out loud. Then he leaned forward toward her, a sudden grin pulling at the burned side of his face harshly. “You’d best make it worth my while.” 

He was trying to provoke her, Sansa knew. She had sensed his hesitation when he had kissed her; his entire body had pulled taut like a bowstring. Something about the way the Hound was sitting before her, as languid as his namesake after a long hunt, gave her a strange realisation. 

Sandor Clegane was nervous. 

It made hysterical laughter bubble in her throat, but Sansa swallowed it down. For all of his barking and his leering, he was just as unsure as she was in that moment. 

_You’d best make it worth my while…_

The words seemed imprinted on her mind. They both knew what he had come for- she still couldn’t fully grasp the implications of that knowledge, maiden as she was- but now that she had realised his fears it didn’t seem so intimidating a prospect. 

No… perhaps it was more a help than a hindrance that he wanted her, though Sansa couldn’t have begun to say why it was so. 

She had been silent for too long. The Hound didn’t seem to pay it much mind. He was staring at her contentedly, and without reservation. The way his gaze dragged down her body made it feel as though he were touching her all over. 

Sansa was surprised that she didn’t mind the idea at all. Propriety had been thrown out the window and into the Sunset Sea the moment she had agreed to his request; now he was sitting in the same room as her, naked to the waist ( _Gods,_ he was hairy, and muscled like a bull) and leering at her shamelessly. 

There was nothing lost if she looked at him back. 

That was what she told herself as she crossed the space between them, bending her head to kiss his smirking mouth. 

They’d both seen the kiss coming this time, and something about it had changed. Clegane’s lips were insistent, harder than she’d remembered, and when she felt his teeth dig into her bottom lip she gave a gasp of surprise. He took the opportunity to delve his tongue into her mouth. Sansa hadn’t seen _that_ coming, certainly, but then what did she know about kissing? 

Clegane seemed to be as new to it as her, however, for he ended up clashing teeth with her several times. Sansa found that she didn’t mind; it made her feel less like a little girl, and more as though she were teaching him something. 

She tried to shift her position so that she wasn’t straining her neck so much. He hadn’t moved from his relaxed pose in the chair, Sansa noted. _Really, his presumption is unbearable._ With a sigh, she pulled away from him, rising to her full height and rubbing at her aching neck. 

“I can’t keep on like that, it’s painful,” she told him petulantly. The man rumbled a laugh, making no attempt to move as he regarded her. Was it the firelight, or did his eyes seem somehow darker? 

“Come, then,” he said, patting the tops of his thighs with both hands. Sansa eyed them for a heartbeat. It would be easy, she thought, to sit in his lap as he wished, to give in to the sudden ache that their parted kiss had caused low in her stomach. It wouldn’t be a surrender, not truly, for she knew that if she told him to go he would do so in a moment. 

It would be easy, indeed. But with sudden impishness, Sansa didn’t want to make it easy. 

“Do I look like a common strumpet who sits on men’s laps?” She asked him, trying to force her voice to sound as bored as his seemed calm. Sansa wasn’t fooled by that; she could see where his fingertips trembled against the tops of his breeches. 

The Hound gave her a wicked smile. With the light behind him, cast only on the burned side of his face, he looked truly monstrous. In her younger years, Sansa might have wanted to flee. Now part of her was curious to see what he would do if he caught her. 

“You look like a woman who invites sellswords to spend the night in her rooms,” he rasped, grasping her by the forearm and pulling her to him. She was caught off balance, with no choice but to settle herself on his knees with her hands pressed against his chest. One knee was just inside the arm of the chair, while the other had landed directly between Clegane’s legs. Another inch, Sansa knew, and he would have been howling in agony instead of whispering low in her ear. “You look like a woman who needs to know when she’s been defeated.” 

So he was still intent on playing the role of the conqueror. Sansa smiled slightly into his broad neck; she wondered if all conquerors stroked the hair of those they’d beaten, as though to prove they were real. 

She wondered if all captives clung to their subduers like a drowning man to the wreckage. The heartbeat drumming against her, where she pressed against his chest, reassured her. 

It had felt like seeing a ghost when he had walked into the room. She had been shocked, and then _furious_ ; furious at his actions, furious at his terms. But mostly she had been furious at herself, for being relieved to finally find him again. How many times had she dreamt that he had come back for her, in the years since the Blackwater? 

How long had it been, since those dreams began to shift and change, becoming more like the situation they currently found themselves in? Sansa wasn’t sure of that either, but it felt so strange, as though they had bled through into reality. 

His fingers in her hair became more sure, more insistent. Where they had stroked lightly, they began to tug lightly at her scalp, pulling her head back just slightly to the side. Sansa made no protest, save a whimper of surprise, when she felt his lips descend on the soft skin there. 

_This is not what ladies do,_ she thought vaguely, her conscience far away. But then again, she had relinquished control over Casterly Rock. She was not its lady any more. 

Sandor Clegane was pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up her neck, toward her hairline and up over the side of her face. She nearly moaned aloud when his tongue traced the shell of her ear. Such a place had never felt good before. 

All too soon, however, his mouth was gone. The loss of it made Sansa feel suddenly cold. The Hound lifted her by the chin to look at him, his pupils blown so wide she could almost see her reflection in their dark depths. 

“You asked me to stay,” he reminded her in a low voice. She felt one large hand trailing up her leg, almost impatiently, fingers tangling in the hem of her dress. “I have heard your terms, Sansa Stark.” Something about the way he said her name (her full name, she realised, the first time she had ever heard it from his lips) made her shiver pleasantly. Then, barely above a murmur; “Will you accept mine?” 

How novel, she supposed wryly, for the victor to ask permission for what he wanted. 

Though her heart was hammering wildly, the deep ache screaming at her to accept unthinkingly, Sansa made herself pause. Would she give him what he asked for? Certainly, she had been prepared to do as much when she’d thought him any other sellsword commander. Her resolve had changed somewhat, however. The Hound was not his brother, and wouldn’t take what he desired by force. That gave her a way out of an otherwise alarming predicament, a way out that would result in the preservation of her maidenhood and her reputation as the Lady of the Rock, faithful wife and servant to the Crown. 

On the other hand, the identity of their conqueror had made her suddenly reluctant to flee. Like a rabbit in a snare, she was caught by those grey eyes. 

“I’m a woman of my word,” she told him, as solemnly as she could manage while straddling his lap red-faced and panting for air. If he wanted her permission, he would have it- along with her courtesy. “I don’t intend to back out of my end of the bargain, after you so kindly upheld yours.” 

Clegane raised his sole good eyebrow at that. He wouldn’t press his advantage, they both knew it. She kept her gaze fixed on him, steadily, trying to convey everything she couldn’t bring herself to say. Manners and propriety were too deeply written into her every thought for her to relinquish them now. Sansa didn’t know how to tell him exactly what she wanted. If she could put everything in terms of their earlier agreement, like a neat little parcel, she wouldn’t have to address the strange ideas her mind was conjuring. 

Sandor Clegane, however, had other ideas. 

“Piss on that,” he told her roughly, getting to his feet. She was forced to stumble to her own, sliding down his body in a way that would have seemed almost obscene if he hadn’t been glaring at her so intently. “Tell me what you want, girl. I’m here; you have me, body and soul. Do as you wish, but do it of your own free will.” 

Sansa took a deep breath, staring back at him. She hadn’t meant to make him angry. For a moment, she gnawed lightly on her lip, thinking of the best way to phrase her thoughts. 

Lightly cursing her mother and Septa Mordane for their thorough teaching, Sansa gave a sigh of frustration. The words weren’t coming to her easily; then again, Clegane had never been one for conversation. 

The thought was emboldening. With deft movements, and without giving it so much as a second thought- for if she did, she might wonder what had possessed her in that moment- Sansa loosened the tie of the robe and let it fall from her shoulders to pool on the floor. 

She still wore underthings- a thin piece of silk that Elyse had called a _chemise_ , edged with fine Dornish lace- but Sansa felt she made her intentions clear enough. From the look on the Hound’s face, half wolfish intent, half wonderment, she believed he understood her quite well. 

“Gods,” he swore, letting his eyes drift over her. Sansa felt gooseflesh erupt on her bare limbs. It only worsened when she felt a calloused hand against her upper arm, smoothing downward to her fingertips and back. She could tell by the stiffness of the movement that the man wanted more- _needed_ more- but was restraining himself. 

The realisation, that for once in her life all power was in her hands, made Sansa suddenly bold. 

She reached out to place her palm against the Hound’s chest, brushing her fingernails very lightly against the grain of the hair that grew there. The man gave a deep sigh, as though he had been holding his breath for some time. The sigh turned into a moan when her hand moved downward, over the hard plane of his stomach. There were faint lines here and there, some angrier and pink; the body of a true warrior, she thought idly. Where his stomach met the waistband of his breeches, the line of hair disappeared. 

A look upward seemed to drag Clegane out of whatever he had been thinking of while she explored his torso. With a muttered curse, that seemed more strained than angry, he fumbled with the ties and shucked them down his legs until he was free of them. 

There was little time for Sansa to register what was happening. Strong arms suddenly gripped her and walked her backwards, to where she knew the bed lay. Her stomach flipped wildly, with nerves and something else entirely. 

She had never seen a naked man before- she’d had little occasion to, as a well-bred lady- so the one standing before her, as she was splayed out on the bed with her chemise riding up her thighs, was something of a shock. 

The Hound did not seem proud of her careful assessment of his naked form, nor was he sheepish. He merely stood obediently still for a long moment, letting her drink her fill. 

“A far cry from the Imp, little bird?” 

His harsh voice made Sansa’s attention return to his face, her own slightly reddened. “I wouldn’t know,” she told him simply. She wasn’t angered by his suggestion, but she dearly hoped they wouldn’t have to talk of her lord husband the entire night. Not when there were far more _remarkable_ things to be paying attention to. “I never laid with Tyrion, though his whores seemed happy enough.” 

Clegane stared at her quite blankly for a few long moments. Whether he was shocked at her maidenhood, or her knowledge of her husband’s infidelities, Sansa wasn’t sure. She took the opportunity of his silence to push herself further up the bed, pulling the hem of her chemise down to a more decent length. _Decent,_ she thought with amusement, _what good is that now?_

“You’re a maiden,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but Sansa felt compelled to answer anyway. 

“Yes.” 

The Hound shook his head. “What in the Seven Hells is wrong with the Imp?” 

“Must we keep returning to Tyrion?” She asked, surprising herself with her own bluntness. “Nothing is _wrong_ with him. He merely respected my refusals.” 

The man fell silent again. Sansa half-worried that he was reconsidering their agreement; the look in his eyes, though, was of a man half-starved as they raked their way up the length of her legs, resting where they disappeared beneath the silk. 

“I’ve never had a maiden,” he rasped, even as he placed one knee between her legs and crawled onto the bed, hovering above her. The sudden feeling of being beneath him, towering over her like a beast about to devour its prey, should have frightened her. All Sansa felt was a quickening of her heartbeat as the man continued to talk. “Never had any woman who wasn’t a whore.” He looked down at her then, something unnameable in his eyes. Then he gave a grating laugh. “I hardly know what to do with you.” 

He spoke gently, as if she would break. Sansa decided very quickly that she didn’t like that. Just moments ago, she had been relishing the power she held- power he had given her. She refused to be weak, not for tonight. 

“Do with me as you wish,” she told him almost breathlessly, lifting her hands to grasp either side of his face. 

“I wish a lot of things,” the Hound admitted, lifting himself up on his arms to sit on his heels. He was looking at her expectantly; Sansa took this as her cue. With a shuddering breath, and ignoring the protests in her mind (which sounded awfully similar to her dear old Septa), she tugged on the hem of her undergarments and pulled them over her head. 

She lay back down, feigning total ease. In truth, she felt like squirming beneath Clegane’s fevered gaze. 

“What do you wish now?” She asked him. Her voice sounded small- it almost made her wince. _Be brave, Sansa,_ she counselled herself. His proximity, his nakedness, the sheer _size_ of him- particularly between his legs, she noted with nervous interest, made her considerably less courageous than she had been while fully clothed. 

Still, the thought of him stepping away now and leaving her alone in her bed was near painful. She lifted a hand to his, tracing the veins on the back. Her face felt warm with blush. 

“I wish to devour you, girl,” the Hound told her. “I want to fuck you and make you sing for me.” 

_Sing._ Her mind turned unbidden to the night of the Blackwater, to a situation not unfamiliar. She lying in her bed, he hovering over her. It had never occurred to her, before now, that he had not been wishing for a mere lullaby. 

“I’ve sung for you already,” she teased, hoping to hide her nerves. He snorted; _that_ was familiar, too, and it made her laugh a little. 

“Florian and Jonquil, you said.” It was as though she were hearing an echo, except this time the fearsome Hound’s eyes were crinkled with a suppressed smile. Her own smile faded a little when she felt his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart slightly. 

He met her eyes. “Perhaps I’ll get another verse out of you yet,” he rasped, before moving onto his belly and lowering his head between her legs more quickly than she would have anticipated in so large a man. 

“What-“ she began, trying to sit up- but a heavy hand on her belly pushed her back down. The motion didn’t hurt her, but it was forceful enough to make Sansa remember just who she was dealing with. 

Naked. In bed. With his head between her legs. 

She would have protested such an undignified action- she was sure of it- had she not been interrupted by the first slow pull of his tongue against her folds. It felt strange, foreign, but she couldn’t help the hiss of pleasure that escaped from between her teeth at the sensation. Encouraged, the man repeated the action- and again. 

Sansa hardly knew what to do with herself. She’d never heard of such a thing being done, but she was loathe to interrupt Clegane when he was so intent on his task. He was licking at her like she was a feast, and it made her want to giggle. The laugh dissolved into moans as his tongue found a particular place towards the top, which sent sparks of sensation coursing through her. 

For all of his enthusiasm, the Hound was still the Hound. After a little while, he stopped his ministrations with a muffled curse against her thigh, sitting up to watch her. Sansa felt mortified at the sight of his mouth glistening wet, but the man merely gave her a wicked grin. 

“Why did you stop?” She asked him indignantly. While his mouth had been imprecise, Sansa had the feeling a little more direction from herself would have led to something wonderful. 

“Plenty of time for that, little bird,” he told her. “We can’t let you have all the fun, can we?” 

He was nudging her thighs open again, wider this time. She was at no loss as to what would happen next, and Sansa suddenly felt a rush of worry. 

Her maidenhead, the gift valued above all else in a noblewoman, would be no more if she let the Hound continue. Without it, she would be considered ruined. Should Tyrion perish in King’s Landing, she would be unfit to remarry- what high lord would want her after this? 

Sansa had considered all of these things before the Hound had even entered the castle. After deliberation, she decided that her maidenhead was null and void as it was; she was already married, and no one would expect a widow to have never lain with a man. 

No; what scared her was how quickly she had decided to throw it away. The last vestige of her courtesy, at least what remained between her and Sandor Clegane, would be torn asunder. 

She found the idea relieving. 

The Hound kissed her then, slowly, running his hands over her chest. He paused over one nipple, teasing it to hardness with his thumb and forefinger. That felt nice, too, but the man seemed impatient, as though she would fly away if he lingered for too long on any one part of her body. 

It occurred to her, suddenly, that while he had lain with whores he may not have known how to please a woman. His caresses were a little heavy, like he’d forgotten his own strength, but not unpleasant. Sansa wondered where else on her body those hands would feel good. There were things she would have to learn for herself, she supposed. 

_Perhaps I can teach him too._

“You have no idea,” he told her then, his voice almost reverent as he leaned his body over hers, “how much I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.” 

She believed him. There was something in his tone, a deep longing, that suddenly made her feel even more naked than she already was. When he pressed himself against her, hard as steel and so _warm_ , she forced herself not to tense. Her maid had advised her of that on her wedding night. 

How strange, that she should wed an Imp but bed a Hound. 

The vague thought was the last she had before he pushed inside her. Sansa gasped at the sensation. The slickness from earlier reduced some of the pain, but it still felt as though she were being split apart. Clegane didn’t seem to share her discomfort; on the contrary, his eyes were closed almost contentedly, and he let out a low moan. 

“Little bird,” he said, his eyes bright as molten silver as he gazed down at her. Sansa shifted a little under him, trying to ease the burning sensation in her core. To distract herself from it, and because his eyes seemed so sincere, she lifted a hand to his ruined cheek and stroked it. 

“Can you feel that?” She asked him. Every breath she took seemed to remind her of the fullness of him inside her; she determinedly pushed it to the back of her mind. There was worse pain than this-she’d experienced some herself. None of it had been like what she was feeling now, with the Hound staring down at her as though she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. For a moment, while he held still and watched her, she wasn’t stupid or small or weak. 

“No,” Clegane confessed. The word was a whisper that ghosted over her face. She could smell wine and leather, and the sweat beading down his forehead as he fought to remain unmoving. “But keep it there.” 

She nodded at him, pressing her palm more firmly against the cratered skin. The Hound sighed, pushing his face against her hand, and began to move. 

It hurt. Sansa had expected as much. The Septas and maids and ladies had told her to expect it; blood and agony, same as everything else a woman had to endure. 

Except this wasn’t agony, she realised as she braced her hands against his broad shoulders. If she moved against him a little, timing her motions with each thrust of his hips, it became merely uncomfortable. 

She soon became aware that he was talking to her. Sansa had been so focused on trying not to fight his movements that she had barely registered the whispered words, but now that the pain had lessened to a throb she began to listen intently. 

“Little bird,” he was saying, so softly. “Sansa.” 

The way he said her name, like a prayer, made her chest feel tight. “Sandor,” she offered back, a little hesitantly. She had never used his first name before. When his eyes snapped up to take in her face, his movements becoming erratic and harsh, the words left her mouth before she could stop them. “Don’t ever leave me.” 

He lowered his face to the crook of her neck, groaning like a man in agony as he stilled against her. Sansa could feel the heat of him at her core. His breath was hot, too, panting against her neck as though he had run for miles. 

Then he was smoothing the hair from her face, peering down at her with an expression so open it almost frightened her. But she was braver than she used to be, and stared back into them without fear. 

“No, little bird,” Sandor told her softly. “I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know the sex wasn't mind blowing but hear me out:
> 
> -I love smut (don't we all), but I wanted to try something different than the usual formula of kissing-mutual oral-mindblowing multiple orgasm sex;  
> -This chapter is a lot less dub con than the other two, because this is my first foray into writing scenes like this so I wanted to dip my toe in the shallow end first;  
> -While we all know that Sandor Clegane is a Master of Sex (TM) who's hung like a horse, I thought it would be interesting to consider how he would perform in the context of only ever having had sex for his own enjoyment and never having learned how to ensure the woman finds mutual satisfaction (but he TRIES, and I feel like they'll get lots of practice ;) )
> 
> Ergo, you have this hot mess of a smut chapter; kinda awkward, un-orgasmic (for Sansa) sex but with lots of fluff and sincerity. Because despite my efforts to move into more mature fields, fluffiness will always find its way into my stories.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please comment! <3
> 
> p.s i may write an epilogue for this at some point but for now it's complete

**Author's Note:**

> Any direct quotes from ASOIAF are the property of G.R.R.Martin. I own, and know, nothing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Enemy at the Gates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16962354) by [Vermilion_Sunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise)




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